


overtime

by galaxyeyedrops



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 13:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyeyedrops/pseuds/galaxyeyedrops
Summary: secret santa present for div!(condensed) prompt: ibuki taking care of mamoru





	overtime

**Author's Note:**

> posting this on mobile, so I apologize beforehand for wonky formatting

Anjou Mamoru is a man of many virtues:kind, intelligent, understanding; the list goes on and on—but an early riser, he is not.

He sets alarms. A different one goes off every half hour, each drawing him further and further away from his sanctuary amongst the down pillows and egyptian cotton sheets. They buzz insistently, their source across the room and out of reach, forcing Mamoru to physically get up to turn it off.

He freshens up quickly, a toothbrush, face wash, and razor already set up in his shower; a comb, aftershave, and moisturizer by the sink. He applies orange concealer with a brush—drawing neat crisp lines across his undereye area and down, finishing it up as an upside down triangle, sharp point right above his cheekbones, and slowly patting it in.

He runs over the area with a different concealer after, one closer to his skin tone, making sure to blend it out properly afterwards.

Ibuki’s already left—their shared apartment much closer to Mamoru's office than his own. He's left some toast in a covered plate and enough hot water in the kettle for a cup of tea.

They're low on tea bags, Mamoru notes as he places the container back in the pantry. Perhaps he'll grab some on the way back.

He eats quickly. In minutes, the tea is drunk; there is nothing left on his plate but crumbs. He drops the empty dishes off in the sink, running water over them as he washes his hands, and makes sure to turn off all the lights before stepping out.

Work is, as usual, incredibly busy. They've got a major event planned for the Coming of Age Day—details pending, clean up from all of the New Year's festivities, as well as the ever present unending piles of paperwork. Normally they would be the Branch Chief's responsibility, but considering who the that is, his own duty of  _ assisting the Branch Chief _ ends up being a lot more than expected.

That isn't to say that it isn't rewarding—Mamoru wouldn't trade this for anything in the world. He loves Vanguard. Loves the tenseness of each drive and trigger check, loves how he and his opponent steadily grow stronger each turn. He loves playing and loves watching others play. An attack barely, just barely guarded; children smiling and laughing as they show off their favorite cards.

The Dragon Empire Branch is well-known for the sheer amount of events and festivities and Mamoru, as an organizer, takes pride in that.

It's just that sometimes—late night after late night, poring over requisition forms with tired eyes and a limited supply of canned coffee—Mamoru wishes that they weren't so understaffed. That he wasn't the one keeping everything in line. 

He sleeps at the office every so often, head on the desk, tucked into his arms. He gets an hour or so until he wakes, neck aching, works until he's tired again, rinse and repeat.

He makes it back home a little before sunrise. He steps lightly across the wooden floors, leaves the lights off, navigating the apartment with familiarity.

He stops at their bedroom; slowly opens the door so it doesn't creak.

Ibuki is sleeping, long hair braided into a single plait, dipping over the edge of his pillow. He's curled in on himself for warmth—the blanket lies on the floor, a victim of his constant tossing and turning. 

Mamoru picks it up, draping it over the other with care, making sure its covering him properly. Ibuki's eyes open as Mamoru makes his way to the closet.

“Anjou?“ He asks, voice heavily muddled with sleep. He lifts his head slightly, turns to face the alarm clock, squinting at the display. “It's four am”.

“I stopped to change and freshen up,” Mamoru explains, pointing at his own clothes. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

Ibuki sighs and does the opposite. He slips out of the sheets, bare feet touching the carpet in seconds. He turns on the lamp—illuminating the room as well as his boyfriend.

He takes in the other's appearance; the messy hair, rumpled clothes, and heavy eye bags, and gestures to the other side of the bed. “You should sleep as well.”

Mamoru smiles. “I have to be back in a couple of hours,” he says. “If I get in, I'm afraid I won't be able to leave.”

There's a pause, a moment where Ibuki just stares, taking him in, but when he starts to leave—there's a hand on his shoulder stopping him.

“I can call you in sick,” Ibuki says. He's not normally like this, usually letting Mamoru do his own thing without any problems. He's stubborn, yes, but only pushes when pushed; only meddles when he feels he has good reason.

“Okay,” Mamoru says. He sighs exaggeratedly, lifting his shoulders up with the motion. “If the higher ups want me to take the day off, there's not much I can do.”

He strips down in the middle of the bedroom, tossing yesterday's clothes into the hamper, and grabbing a pair of pajamas as an afterthought.

He puts them on under Ibuki's watchful eyes; arms and legs in the right holes, buttons double checked to make sure they're in the right order.

It's a bit of a struggle, exhaustion revealing its hand, but he manages well enough, following Ibuki to the bed when he's finished.

He cuddles up against him—none of them are in the mood to do much more—and leans forward, until their breaths intermingle, lifts up a hand to brush a few strays hairs from Ibuki's face. He lets it traces its way down, over broad shoulders and well-muscled arms, around the planes of his back, and rests it there. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

Awareness comes to him in bits and pieces. He’s too warm, the sheets wrap around his limbs like shackles, his throat itches, the spot beside him is empty.

He aches all over. There's a slight buzzing in his head, muffled by what feels to be layer upon layer of gauze; a tilt of his room that threatens to unbalance him with each step.

There's a warmth when he enters the kitchen. The smell of cooked rice reaches him first, starchy mixed with a slightly vinegar tang—the sight of Ibuki in an apron at the stove right after.

As he steps closer, more comes into focus. A small pot of water boils merrily, Ibuki stirring a piece of konbu around with a slotted spoon. Mamoru approaches quietly, resting his chin on the other's shoulder when he's right next to him. Ibuki doesn't flinch, far too used to the treatment by now

“You're staying in?“

Ibuki nods, the movement making his hair tickle Mamoru's face. “I took the day off,” he says, now removing the seaweed from the broth. He doesn't say more, doesn't need to for Mamoru to hear the implication.

He shakes his shoulder slightly to indicate to Mamoru that he needs to move, Mamoru following through, walking back to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

He continues to watch Ibuki from his spot, the other lowering the heat on the stove, adding vegetables, letting those cook for a bit before turning it off entirely, and stirring in a couple spoonfuls of miso.

Ibuki scoops out some rice into a bowl, placing that on a serving tray, along with a another bowl—that one of the recently finished miso soup.

He carries both to Mamoru’s table, the fragrance reaching the other before the food itself. He sits down across from the other, watching him blow on his breakfast to cool it down, a smile unconsciously making its way across his face.

The soup is a bit too bitter, Mamoru realizes at first sip, the konbu left in the boiling water far too long. The vegetables are slightly mushy, the miso too strong.

He sips it gratefully, not allowing even the slightest wince to show up on his face. He cleans both bowls, rice and miso alike, tells Ibuki that it was delicious.

Ibuki carries the dishes back, insisting that it's Mamoru's day of rest, quickly washing them up in the sink and then running a clean towel over them to dry. He places them back in the cupboard before walking back to Mamoru and leading him by the hand to the living room.

The TV is already on, running the local news. A man on-screen shows off a spotted frog to an excited reporter, a line of text runs underneath, something about the SDF instituting a new training policy.

They sit next to each other on the couch, Mamoru resting against Ibuki, a blanket covering their legs. Ibuki grabs the remote, changing the input, highlighting the option their blu-ray player is connected to. The screen changes in an instant, switching over to a movie's opening menu. The characters are immediately recognizable.

“Team Caesar?”

“It's Sendou’s copy,” Ibuki explains. “He forgot some of his things at Headquarters the last time he was in the country.”

And with no further questions from his partner, he hits play.

\--

Three days later, Ibuki gets sick.


End file.
